I See Your True Colors
by Supervillegirl
Summary: Dr. John Watson had never paid much attention to the colors before. And then Sherlock Holmes came along. Post Series 4.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

Dr. John Watson had never paid much attention to the colors before. They were just a part of every day life; every person had an aura which reflected their true colors. Most people had two colors, but some had only one or even none at all. Those were the rare ones. A person who had no aura was either born without it (about one in two million births) or it faded away after a particularly traumatic experience. Those who lost their aura had been known to get it back, but that was rare. John hadn't heard of a case like that since he was a kid.

John's aura was a deep royal blue with light tan flecks shining sporadically from it. According to philosophers and psychologists, blue was the color of loyalty. John thought that was a load of rubbish. Everyone was always trying to find meaning in the colors. They assigned different personality traits to the colors and their appearance. They even claimed the colors would lead you to your soulmate—soulmates' colors would match in some aspect, the colors would change when you met your soulmate, a soulmate could bring the colors back to an Aura-less. And didn't Hollywood just love to play on those ideas. John, however, had never seen evidence that the auras were good for anything except showing the person's emotions.

And then Sherlock Holmes came along.

His old friend Dr. Mike Stamford had come along and offered a solution to his financial and housing issues: a flatmate. He hadn't been too keen on the idea at first but knew he needed to do something to cut down rent costs. And when Mike brought him to see Sherlock, John had to admit that he was a little dismayed at first to see that he was an Aura-less. He had only ever seen an aura-free person once in his life, and with all the prejudice that surrounded them, those societal impressions had rubbed off on him and were telling him to steer clear.

So, when Sherlock had spouted off what felt like John's whole life story within five minutes of meeting him, John was pleased. Here was someone who clearly didn't let society dictate who he was supposed to be. And when his decision to stick with it resulted in not only the cure of his tremors and limp but also the most fun he'd had in the past six months, he became even more convinced that the auras were pointless. Here was a man without an aura—a condition society said meant that he should be mentally, emotionally or psychologically deficient—and he was the smartest, most interesting person John had ever met. John had asked him early on whether he was born without an aura or if it had faded away. The only reply he got was: "I've always been like this."

Sherlock, it seemed, was also indifferent to auras. According to him, the only use they served was to aid his investigations.

"An aura is an open book to those who know how to read it," Sherlock had once told him. "You can tell a lot about a person's mental state from their aura."

And from the deductions he would tell John about people and their auras, John had to admit he was right. The appearance, color and movements of the auras did more than just show off the emotions. They were basically an extension of the soul.

John had felt a pull towards Mrs. Hudson at once. Her aura was a lavender with rose red shimmers almost like sparkles, which spoke of her warm, loving nature and her brave tenacity all at once.

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade had also made an impression during their first meeting in that old building in Lauriston Gardens, not least of which was because he had an unusual pale orange aura with white lines dancing across it. The man seemed to be the only person on the police force who could even begin to put up with Sherlock.

Which was why John disliked Donovan and Anderson so much.

Anderson—whose solid olive green aura—seemed to draw his bitterness from some sort of archaic alpha-male rivalry. Or perhaps he was simply trying to win Donovan's favor by jumping on the hate-Sherlock bandwagon? And Donovan…well, her nauseating neon green with shocking, highlighter-pink spikes said it all. Her aura was enough to put anybody off, and it showed in her personality. She was the most disagreeable, acerbic, bitter woman John had met in a long time. It was obvious where it came from: Sherlock. She was extremely bitter about the fact that Sherlock had waltzed in and upstaged her as a detective with hardly any effort.

And then there was Moriarty. Sherlock and John had met him less than a year after moving in together. John had never met anyone that was able to change the color of their aura before, but then, he had never met a psychopath before. Moriarty had so thrown himself into the roll of "Jim from I.T." that he had even matched his emotions and mind to the role—method acting at its finest—and had appeared as a sky blue with dancing purple sparks. So, when he had stepped into that pool room with his churning black aura, it had taken John a moment to recognize him.

So, as John continued to help Sherlock solve cases, he was indeed coming to understand and respect auras more. It was amazing how telling an aura could be. He was also learning that society and Hollywood weren't too far off base with their analysis of colors. Not only had he proven his blue loyalty in great measure through his association and friendship with Sherlock, but other people's colors were proving to show their unique personality traits. Red for courage and brazenness; purple for nobility or profoundness; gold for purity or innocence; black for a dark or damaged soul; pink for love. Those were the most consistent colors; the meanings didn't _always_ fit the person, but more often than not, they did: Molly Hooper with her gold aura and pink swirls, Irene Adler with her crimson aura and black streaks, and John's girlfriend-turned-wife Mary with her red aura and tan flecks (similar to John's own tan flecks).

He and Sherlock had been through quite a lot in the six years they had known each other. Moriarty had driven Sherlock to fake his death for two years, something in which Sherlock's lack of aura had been an extremely useful tool (if he'd had an aura, it would have kept shining around him, thus giving away the fact that he wasn't actually dead). Charles August Magnussen (whose sickly yellow aura had writhed like it was full of maggots) had come along, blackmailing Mary and causing a temporary rift between her and John due to her lies (and the fact that she had shot Sherlock to save her own skin). During those long months that he had moved back into Baker Street, his aura had darkened to a solid, murky, navy blue. And then, there had been their daughter Rosie, her light pink aura with its gold swirls bringing happiness to both of their lives.

But then, he had lost Mary to a bullet, which she had taken to save Sherlock. John's aura had faded to a barely-visible pastel blue cloud that rumbled with navy blue thunder whenever he saw, talked to or thought about Sherlock. Fortunately, Culverton Smith had come along. Although he extremely disliked the monstrous creep of a serial killer, the man had done what John had thought impossible: mended his and Sherlock's relationship. He had done so by nearly killing Sherlock, but still (the obsidian aura with violent, blood red spikes should have been a dead giveaway).

And then came Eurus. John supposed he should have made the connection sooner. He meets an Aura-less girl on the bus, and then just a few months later, his therapist also has no aura? He had been—in the words of Sherlock—way too slow. However, this was Sherlock's sister. Was it any wonder that she could trick him so well? And just like Sherlock, she had been born with no aura. Thank goodness Sherlock hadn't gone the same way.

Because, while Sherlock claimed to be a sociopath (high-functioning), John didn't believe a word of it. He had seen the emotion in Sherlock too many times to believe it. He had seen Sherlock's slight panic as he fought to untie Sarah in the den of the Black Lotus. He had witnessed the hurt—the betrayal—when John had stepped out of the door into the pool. He had seen the pain in his demeanor at Irene Adler's supposed death (until they had discovered she was alive on New Years' Eve, and it had obviously perked up Sherlock's attitude). He had seen the fear in his eyes after he had been drugged at Dewer's Hollow. He had been yelled at in Sherlock's anger that Moriarty was trying to make John think he was a fake. He had heard the catch—the tremor—in Sherlock's voice as he had lied to John on the roof and said goodbye. No, John had observed too many times that Sherlock possessed a heart just the same as anyone who had an aura.

But John had never seen him overreact— _truly_ overreact—until the day Molly Hooper was kidnapped.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

 **I tried to get the layout of the tube lines accurate, but it's been several months since I was in England, so...**

* * *

John frowned as he spotted the photograph leaning against the books on 221B's sitting room bookshelf. "Sherlock?" He reached out and grabbed it.

"Hmm?" Sherlock asked absently from his microscope in the kitchen.

John turned the photograph towards the kitchen for him to see: John, Mary and Sherlock in front of the church on the Watsons' wedding day. "Where did you get this?"

Sherlock glanced up to see the photo. "The envelope of wedding photos in your desk." He looked back at his microscope, switching slides.

"My desk at home?" asked John. "It's locked!"

"Which made it very difficult to open," said Sherlock. "You might want to make a note of that."

John shook his head, placing the photo back on the shelf. "You could've asked. I would have given you one."

"Yes, well…" muttered Sherlock, hesitating, "it was easier this way."

John smiled at the fact that his friend had been too timid in this instance to ask. He then looked towards the door as he heard footsteps on the stairs.

Greg Lestrade stepped into the doorway, his aura almost flashing like a strobe light. "Sherlock here?"

"Obviously, Lestrade," Sherlock called without looking up. "Why would John be lounging about in a flat he no longer lives in unless the tenant was there?"

John expected to share an amused head shake, maybe a fond eye roll, with Lestrade, but the man immediately turned and moved so he could see Sherlock. _It must be serious._

"Need your help," Lestrade told him. "Been a kidnapping."

"What's so special about it?" muttered Sherlock, starting to change slides. "You wouldn't come to me otherwise."

"It's Molly," said Lestrade.

There was a small crash of glass, causing John to jump a little and look in worry towards the table. Sherlock had dropped his slide to the floor and was staring straight ahead at the sink across from him, his eyes wide and his face pale.

John stepped forward a little. "Sherlock—"

Sherlock pushed himself immediately to his feet, rushing around Lestrade to yank his coat from the door. "Are you sure it's her?"

"They sent us a video," Lestrade told him, as surprised as John was with the hurry Sherlock was in, the panic in his eyes.

Sherlock spun towards him, coat hanging from his right shoulder. "Do you have it?"

Lestrade pulled his phone out, and it was yanked out of his hand. John stepped over, looking over Lestrade's shoulder to see the screen as Sherlock started the video up. Molly appeared on the screen, a cut on her forehead and blood having dried where it had run down her face. John noticed that Sherlock's hand clenched around the phone.

" _Here are your instructions,"_ Molly recited, staring into the camera. _"Retrieve Sherlock Holmes and return to Scotland Yard. You will receive further instructions. Failure to comply will result in punishment. Doesn't sentiment make life fun, Mr. Holmes?"_

The video ended, and John realized that Sherlock's hand was shaking. He shoved the phone at Lestrade and grabbed his scarf, rushing out the door. John snatched his coat up, following the other two down to the waiting police cruiser. The entire ride to Scotland Yard was spent with Sherlock staring out the window, his hand fisted in front of his mouth.

"Are you all right?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock didn't answer at first, but then, he brought his hand away from his mouth, unclenching the fist and staring at it; it was shaking again. "No."

"Is there anything I can do?" asked John.

Again, Sherlock paused for several moments before speaking. "John, I need you to be the level-headed one this time. Keep me grounded."

John's brows were surely rising up into his hairline. "Me?"

"I can't be my usual distant self on this one," muttered Sherlock. "Not this case."

"Because of Molly?" asked John.

Sherlock sighed. "It seems this kidnapper has finally done what Moriarty and Magnussen could not. He's connected the dots…found my weak spot."

"Weak spot?" asked John.

Sherlock finally turned his head to look at John, his eyes full of pain.

John's eyes widened as he connected the dots himself: Sherlock's reaction to finding out it was Molly who had been kidnapped, the fear in his eyes, the tremor in his hands. "Oh."

Sherlock looked back out the window, his fist resuming its place in front of his mouth.

"Does she know?" John asked gently.

"No," Sherlock answered.

John looked down at his hands. "You know what I do when one of our cases becomes too emotionally painful for me?"

Sherlock looked over at him in interest.

"I list all the ways I would like to punish the guy when we catch him," John told him, looking him in the eye.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment before nodding, accepting the advice and assurance that John would help him through this. He looked back out the window. "Thank you."

* * *

They waited at Scotland Yard for over an hour, Sherlock pacing Lestrade's office all the while. The officers and sergeants at their desks were unnerved at his behavior, especially since they had never been in prolonged contact with him. Sherlock was usually on and off the crime scene within—at the longest—fifteen minutes. And none of them had ever seen him this worked up. Because there was no doubt about it—you no longer had to know him well like John did—Sherlock was practically panicked.

"Why haven't they called?" Sherlock burst out, still pacing. "They took her because of me! I'm here! Why aren't they doing anything?!"

"They're playing with you," John reminded him from his seat in front of Lestrade's desk. "They want you to be tense and on edge. Focus on your list."

Sherlock glanced at him, giving him a grateful nod before turning his gaze inward to focus.

"List?" asked Lestrade behind his desk.

"Relaxation technique," John told him.

Lestrade glanced at the pacing detective and then back at John. "He's really worked up, isn't he?"

"I can still hear you," Sherlock muttered.

Lestrade's phone alerted them to a message, and he immediately picked it up, but Sherlock was right there, ripping it out of his hand. John and Lestrade moved around to either side of Sherlock as he opened the new message.

Molly stared into the camera, looking no worse than she had the last time. _"Very good. Your next instructions are to go to Euston Station. Go down to the Northbound Victoria Line and wait there. You can take Dr. Watson with you since you so obviously need him, but no one from Scotland Yard follows. I will be watching. You may contact them, however, after you've received your first clue. It's arriving on the 13:05 train. Better hurry."_

The video ended, and John glanced at his watch: 12:45. They would barely get there.

"Oh, Christ…" muttered John as Sherlock rushed out the door.

Lestrade ran after him into the main office. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock barely turned his head back.

"Take my car!" Lestrade called, tossing his keys.

Sherlock slowed as he reached out and caught the keys before turning and racing out the building, John hot on his heels.

* * *

The police cruiser squealed to a halt in the bus lane in front of Euston Station, and Sherlock and John jumped out, John looking at his watch.

"Five minutes!" John called after his friend.

"I can count, John!" Sherlock shouted back as they reached the building.

They tore around a corner and down the escalators towards the Underground. As they approached the gates, Sherlock dug in his pocket as he made a bee-line for the railing. The security guard nearby startled slightly and started to head them off.

Sherlock shoved the pilfered Scotland Yard ID in the man's face as he passed. "Police emergency!" He reached the railing and vaulted over it.

"Call Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard!" John told the stunned officer in an effort to help clear up the matter. He vaulted over the railing and followed Sherlock down the escalator, apologizing as they pushed past commuters.

They ran down a wide corridor, following the signs for the Victoria Line. As they ran down the last staircase, Sherlock darted to the left for the Northbound platform, head swiveling about as he turned on the spot, looking for anything out of the ordinary. The few people on the platform that morning looked towards them, frowning at Sherlock's frantic behavior.

Sherlock looked back as he started walking towards the right side of the platform. "You start at the back."

John nodded and hurried down the platform on the left. He reached the end of it just as the sound of wheels on the rails echoed through the Tube tunnel. Before long, light splashed onto the curved tile wall in front of him, and then the train was pulling into the station. As soon as the last car was within sight, John started off down the platform, looking through the windows to try to find anything that might be a clue. He was about a quarter of the way down the platform—dodging commuters as the doors opened—when he spotted it. On a seat in the middle of the car was a violin case with a deerstalker perched on it.

John glanced down the platform, where Sherlock had gotten about halfway down the train, and called, "Sherlock!" He then hopped through the doors as Sherlock looked up at him.

John approached the case as the doors closed, sitting down next to it. As the train lurched slightly and started moving, John glanced up the train, which was thankfully one with connected carriages. Sherlock was making his way through the few cars that separated them.

Sherlock knelt down in front of the seats, snatching the deerstalker up and turning it over in his hands to look for clues. A few of the people in the car had started to recognize Sherlock, especially with the deerstalker in his hands, and were now watching what was clearly one of his famous cases, their auras' colors rippling in interest.

Sherlock wordlessly held the hat out, and John took it as the violin case was now examined. Sherlock's eyes poured over the case for clues before he flipped the latches and opened it. Inside was a single typed piece of paper.

Sherlock grabbed the paper and quickly read it. "Oh, I don't believe this…"

"What?" muttered John quietly, as they had quite a few eavesdroppers now.

The train was slowing to a stop now, and Sherlock shot to his feet, hurrying for the door as it opened. John tossed the deerstalker into the violin case and latched it closed, running after Sherlock amid stares from passengers.

Sherlock headed for a staircase and hurried up it, leading John into a long corridor. He continued on to a central concourse that pointed the way down multiple corridors to other Tube lines. He moved over to an unfrequented corner and turned to John, shoving the paper at him. "It's a riddle, John, a game of riddles!"

John grabbed the paper and read it.

 _Welcome to my game_

 _A game to save a dame_

 _Follow the clues, you must_

 _Or Molly returns to the dust_

 _Your first clue was easy enough_

 _But it's time to make it tough_

 _I hold nothing but a bad memory_

 _For poor Rosamund Mary_

John's eyes widened as he looked up at Sherlock. "Rosie—"

"No, John, look at the riddle," Sherlock told him. "Rosie is much too young to have created significant memories. This isn't about Rosie; this is about…"

"Mary," said John, looking back at the paper. "A bad memory… The Aquarium?"

Sherlock shook his head, his brows furrowed. "No, no, it's something else. What?" He closed his eyes, his fingers at his temples as he thought. "Nothing, nothing, nothing. Holds nothing. Bad memory. Nothing, holds nothing, empty—" His eyes snapped open. "Empty." A smile appeared on his face. "Of course."

Sherlock darted to the middle of the concourse, glancing up at the signs for the Tube lines. Spotting one for the Circle Line, he rushed down that corridor with John in hot pursuit.

* * *

 **Who knows what the answer to the riddle is?**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

 **Well, for those of you that guessed the answer to the riddle was The Empty Hearse, you weren't far off.**

* * *

Sherlock ran up to the door of 23 Leinster Gardens and opened it, finding a piece of paper taped to the cement wall opposite the door.

Sherlock grinned as John joined him in the narrow corridor. "Leinster Gardens. The empty houses." He ripped the paper from the wall and read it aloud.

 _Congratulations on your first clue_

 _Bet you wonder how I knew_

 _There'll be time for that later_

 _For now, here's a riddle that's greater_

 _I lie in plain sight_

 _Don't bother to hide my might_

 _In order to find my land_

 _The Iron Man might lend a hand_

Sherlock looked up at John with a frown. "Iron Man? Surely they meant Iron Lady?"

"Unless they actually meant Iron Man," speculated John. He watched Sherlock's frown deepen. "Comic book superhero. He's part of those Avengers movies they're making recently."

Sherlock looked back down at the riddle. "Why would they mention him? Tell me about him."

"Erm…well…his name is Tony Stark," John began, thinking back to the last time he had seen one of the films. "He's a billionaire genius inventor who made an iron suit to fight crime, namely terrorists. He's a bit cocky—kind of reminds me of you, actually. He's played by Robert Downey, Jr."

Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing fits." He looked over the riddle again. "'Hide my might.' Someone powerful."

"Maybe it's literally talking about Iron Man," John suggested, pointing down at the paper. "'Plain sight.' Tony Stark revealed himself to be Iron Man; he doesn't have a secret identity like most superheroes. I think they have several Avengers figures at Madame Tussaud's. Maybe that's where—"

"No, too obvious," Sherlock cut him off.

John gave a sigh, looking back at the riddle. "'Find my land.' An address?"

"The address of someone with might," Sherlock agreed. "Iron Man…Iron Lady…" His face brightened. "Robert Downey, Jr." He looked at John. "Downing Street." He turned and rushed out the door.

* * *

Sherlock jumped out of the cab as John quickly handed over some notes and followed. The two of them negotiated with a guard at the edge of the gated road, and thankfully before long, they were escorted towards the door of 10 Downing Street, but they saw nothing out of the ordinary. They spent several minutes searching the surrounding area before Sherlock stopped right in front of the door, staring down at the welcome mat.

"What?" asked John, walking over.

Sherlock said nothing as he stepped forward and lifted up the corner of the mat, revealing a piece of paper taped to the underside. Gingerly peeling it off and then tossing the mat back to the doorstep, he retreated to the pavement to read it.

 _You're halfway there_

 _But there's more to share_

 _So, buck up, soldier_

 _I've got another clue, mister_

 _I watch over Queen and Country_

 _Even if it is just case-interrupting tea_

 _In the heart is where I tower_

 _And hope we don't have another backfire_

 _(Shame on me_

 _That wasn't a very good rhyme)_

"'Watch over Queen and Country,'" recited John. "Queen's guards?"

Sherlock was shaking his head. "'Case-interrupting tea.' 'Backfire.'" He turned to face him. "John, when have we ever had a case interrupted for tea?"

John nodded in realization. "The Hiker and the Backfire." He smiled, shaking his head. "'Buck up, soldier.' So, what, Buckingham Palace?"

"It can't be," said Sherlock. "We'd never get in there." He looked down at the riddle. "Something that watches over Buckingham Palace… 'In the heart is where I tower…'" He looked over at John. "Victoria Memorial." He turned and started running back towards Whitehall.

* * *

John tossed the last of his money at the cabbie and then followed Sherlock as they ran up the rest of The Mall towards Victoria Memorial in front of the Palace. Sherlock tore his way up the steps to the foot of the monolith, circling around it as tourists scrambled to get out of his way, their auras flashing in surprise. When he had made it 180 degrees around, he stopped and bent down to where a rather thick plaque hung on the side of the stone. He pulled the fake plaque off and turned it over in his hands before finding the hinges and opening it. He pulled the folded paper out and read it to himself before hurrying down to the street and over towards Canada Gate, where it was less crowded.

"What is it?" asked John when they had come to a stop to the side of the gilded gate.

In response, Sherlock shoved the paper at him before placing his fingers on his temples and closing his eyes, retreating into his mind palace. John looked down and read the riddle.

 _You're almost done_

 _Oh, what fun_

 _The game is almost through_

 _Can't wait to meet you, too_

 _An American, though I may be known_

 _My home may be shown_

 _I was called by many trades_

 _You'll know me if you get good grades_

John looked up at Sherlock. "An American?"

"Yes, an American who owned property in London," Sherlock answered quickly without opening his eyes. "Someone important enough to be learned about in school, someone who was skilled at many trades, someone whose home would now be a tourist attraction." He opened his eyes. "There are only two museums of American-owned homes: Dennis Severs' House and Benjamin Franklin House. Dennis Severs was in no way an important historical figure. Benjamin Franklin was."

Sherlock darted for Constitution Hill, heading for The Mall. "Taxi!"

* * *

The two of them ran to the front door of the building, but after several minutes, Sherlock was still unable to find anything.

"It doesn't make any sense," muttered Sherlock, his fingers to his temples in frustration. "There's nowhere else it could be." He began pacing, going over it all again.

John, meanwhile, looked towards the building and stepped inside, heading towards the reception desk.

The woman there smiled at him. "Good afternoon, sir. Here for a tour?"

"Actually, I was wondering if anyone dropped off an envelope or a package today," John told her.

The woman looked down below the desk and then back up at him. "What's the name?"

"Sherlock Holmes?" asked John, hope rising. "Or maybe John Watson?"

The woman shook her head. "No, sorry."

John nodded and started to turn away before pausing and turning back. "What about Molly Hooper?"

The woman's face brightened. "Oh, yes." She leaned down, picked up an envelope and handed it over.

"Ta," said John as he made his way back out to the pavement, where Sherlock was still pacing as he talked to John (or thought he had been talking to John).

"—so it could only have been those two," Sherlock was saying.

"Sherlock," said John.

"It couldn't have been Dennis Severs because the—" began Sherlock before John grabbed hold of his arm.

Sherlock's momentum spun him around, and John turned to face him as his eyes opened.

John held the envelope out to him. "Here."

Sherlock looked down at the envelope with Molly's name on it and then frowned up at John. "Where did you find it?"

"The receptionist," John told him.

Sherlock snatched the envelope from him, grimacing in frustration at himself. "Stupid!" He unfolded the paper inside and read it out loud.

 _So, here it is_

 _The end of the quiz_

 _Now, all that remains_

 _Is to free Molly from her chains_

 _You have all you need to solve the mystery_

 _You just have to look back and see_

 _You better hurry to the rescue_

 _You have until half past two_

John looked at his watch. "It's almost twenty past two."

"Oh, God…" muttered Sherlock as he paced. "Have all you need…look back and see…" He came to a stop and looked at John. "The riddles."

"Victoria Line, Leinster Gardens, 10 Downing Street, Buckingham Palace and Benjamin Franklin House," John recited, searching for a pattern.

"Nothing connects all five of them, so they must spell out the new location together," said Sherlock. His eyes darted this way and that over the pavement. "Ten minutes. God, it could be anything. What—"

"Sherlock," John told him firmly, grasping hold of his shoulders and looking him in the eye. "Focus."

Sherlock closed his eyes, and with an almost visible effort, pushed his emotions down. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. "Right. 10 Downing Street and Buckingham Palace are both related to the government and the monarchy. Victoria Line is only connected by name. Leinster Gardens and Benjamin Franklin House… Something's there. What is it? What?!"

John shrugged. "Leinster Gardens is one of your boltholes, but Ben—"

"My what?" said Sherlock, looking up at John with wide eyes.

"Your bolthole," John repeated, confused at the look of revelation on his face.

Sherlock spun towards the road. "Taxi!"

As soon as a cab pulled up, Sherlock and John jumped in.

"Parliament Square," Sherlock told the cabbie, flashing Lestrade's ID at him. "Police emergency. Hurry."

The cabbie pulled out into traffic, driving as quickly as he could.

"Parliament Square?" asked John.

"Downing Street represents Parliament," Sherlock explained. "The Palace, Leinster Gardens, the Ben Franklin House—I once jokingly told Mrs. Hudson that one of my boltholes was—"

"Big Ben," said John, nodding.

"Big Ben," agreed Sherlock. "At the Palaces of Westminster. _That's_ where Molly is."

John tossed some notes from Sherlock's wallet up at the cabbie as they came to a swift stop at Parliament Square. Sherlock had already tossed the door open and was jumping out before it had come to a stop. John tore after him as Sherlock darted across the road, heedless of traffic as drivers laid on their horns. Sherlock raced along the pavement next to the Palaces of Westminster towards Big Ben. As he turned towards a door at the base of the tower, John glanced up to check the time, and his feet stumbled to a stop.

"Sherlock!" John called urgently.

John was certain that his horrified tone was the only thing that pulled Sherlock away from his quest to get to Molly. Sherlock ran over to John and looked up at the clock face, which read 2:25. They could just barely make out a small figure hanging at the bottom of the clock.

"Oh, my God…" John gasped out as Sherlock ran back for the door, shoving his shoulder into it several times before it broke open.

John rushed after his friend's frantic pace as he tore his way up the maintenance stairwell. John was desperate to check the time but knew that it would only slow them down. John had no idea how he was finding the strength to keep running up the many flights of stairs, but he knew that the adrenaline crash would leave him sore and aching for days.

About a quarter of the way up, they were joined by an officer who had given chase, and the man was yelling up the stairs at them as he ran to catch them.

 _Good luck,_ John thought. His military training had taught him how to push through exhaustion, and Sherlock…well, the terrified detective was already four flights ahead of him.

When he finally reached the top, Sherlock was already moving back and forth among the gears and mechanisms near the clock face facing Parliament Square, trying to find a way through the cluttered room.

John looked down at his watch: 2:29. He looked up, his eyes poring over the clock face. He spotted the hatch door near the middle, and from the angle where he was standing, found a catwalk that led to it. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked up at his pointing finger and raced over, jumping the railing onto the catwalk and shoving the hatch open. The wind blew through the hatch, nearly knocking Sherlock over just as the cop emerged from the stairwell.

"Oi!" shouted the cop, grabbing hold of John. "What do you think you're—"

John pulled away from the man, his eyes on the hatch as Sherlock leaned out. There was a great snap as a rope that was pulled taut among the gears broke, and a woman let out a short scream just before Sherlock spun back through the hatch and collapsed onto the catwalk, Molly held tightly in his arms.

"Oh, my God…" muttered the officer in shock as he let go of John, who collapsed against the wall in relief. The officer pulled the radio from his shoulder, calling for backup and disappearing into the stairwell.

John took a moment to catch his breath as he realized just how hard his heart was pounding from the run up the tower. He glanced over at the catwalk, where Sherlock was still holding Molly where they had fallen onto it. Molly's head was buried in Sherlock's chest as she sobbed and gasped, the pink in her aura flashing to fuchsia sporadically. Sherlock held her tight to him, whispering reassurances in her ear. John couldn't tell which one of them was shaking more.

John moved over to the end of the catwalk after a while as Sherlock finally sat them up, his hands on Molly's shoulders. John pulled his penknife out and handed it to Sherlock.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock urgently asked Molly as he opened the knife. "How much did they hurt you?" He grabbed hold of the rope binding Molly's wrists and started sawing at it.

"Just a blow to the head when he took me," Molly told him, her voice still a bit shaky. "And some rope burn from when I was hanging…" She broke off at the memory, tears falling down her face.

Sherlock hurried to cut through the rope and then pulled Molly towards him as she wrapped her arms around him. "You're safe now. It's all right. You're all right. It's all all right." Over her shoulder, his eyes clenched tight as a tear fell down his face.

John quietly stepped back and turned slightly away to give them privacy.

"I'm so sorry," Sherlock told her.

"For what?" asked Molly.

"This was all my fault," said Sherlock, easing back to look at her, his hands still on her arms.

Molly looked surprised to see the tears in his eyes.

"They used you to get to me," Sherlock told her. "If I hadn't gotten here in time…" His hands started to shake in his grip on her arms.

Although John had told himself to give them a little privacy, he found that he couldn't tear his gaze away from the sight of his best friend having what could only be described as an emotional breakdown.

"All this time, I've managed to fool them—Moriarty, Magnussen— _all_ of them," Sherlock went on, starting to ramble. " **This** is _exactly_ what I've been trying to avoid, and it was all for nothing. They still found you."

Molly raised her hands to his chest, grabbing hold of his coat to ground him. "Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

Sherlock shook his head, lowering his gaze and his arms. "It's too late. It's not important."

"No, I think it's very important," Molly told him, her aura starting to calm to its usual light pink and soft gold. "What have you been avoiding?"

Sherlock looked up at her, clearly struggling with himself. He finally let out a defeated breath. "Hurting you. My enemies would always be searching for my weakest point, and if they ever even guessed that it was you…" He waved vaguely around at the clock face. "That's why I push you away so harshly. Despite how much I hate myself for it, I'd rather it was me who hurts you than them." He looked sadly down at the floor almost in embarrassment.

Molly was silent for a long while. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because you've moved on," said Sherlock quietly. "After I dealt with Moriarty's network, I came back to find you engaged. By the time you broke things off with Tom, I was dealing with Magnussen and then Moriarty's return and Smith and Eurus, and…" He paused, taking a calming breath. "You've moved on now. I'm nothing but a friend for you."

Molly shook her head as she reached out and placed her palm along his jaw, bringing his head up to look at her. "You know, for a detective, you are surprisingly unobservant."

Sherlock frowned at her.

"It's not too late, Sherlock," Molly told him quietly.

Sherlock's frown eased slightly as he blinked in surprised. "It's not?"

"No," said Molly, shaking her head. "Never. I love you."

A smile appeared on Sherlock's face. "I love you." He reached up to cradle her cheek in his hand.

The next second, the three of them froze in shock as a bright light blossomed in Sherlock's palm, shining upon Molly's face. John's jaw dropped as he turned more to face them. Sherlock stared at his hand a moment before he slowly drew it back, turning it over and over as the white light dimmed and began changing.

"What…" said Sherlock breathlessly. He held up his other hand as it began emitting a dim light as well. "What's happening?"

"Sherlock…" whispered Molly, staring at the light on his hands in wonder, obviously having already figured it out.

"What?" Sherlock asked her.

Before Molly could respond, the light transformed from white to lavender to lilac to a deep, rich purple, and soft gold swirls began flowing and spiraling through it as it began rising past his wrists.

Sherlock's eyes widened in realization then as his jaw dropped. "It can't be…" He looked up at Molly as her aura's pink flooded through the swirling gold, shining in her love for him.

John had never seen this happen in person. The urban legend that only a soulmate could return the aura came from truth, but not the way society thought. The aura returned because the Aura-less felt deep love towards someone and could feel that deep love returned to them. True love—it was only this that could break through the life-alerting trauma they had sustained that had left them Aura-less.

The violet and gold snaked its way under Sherlock's sleeves as they watched and, before long, was emerging from his collar, flowing up over his head before it seemed to shine and project itself into an aura that surrounded him completely, just like anyone else's.

John stared at the deep purple—the color of nobility—as the gold—the color of purity—swirled lazily over it for another moment before speaking. "I thought you said you were born Aura-less."

Sherlock looked up at him, still shocked and now confused as he tried to remember. "I thought I was. I…" His gaze trailed off. "Oh…of course… I used to have colors." He looked down at his hands, which shown with his newfound aura. "But then I rewrote my memories."

John closed his eyes for a moment as it all became clear. "Eurus."

Sherlock nodded. "She didn't just kill Victor."

"She killed your soul," Molly whispered, reaching forward and taking his hand.

Sherlock looked up at her. "And you brought me back to life." He reached forward, wrapping his fingers around the back of her neck and leaning forward to kiss her.

John smiled and turned away to deal with the officers who had just arrived.

* * *

John walked over to Lestrade's office, and the inspector threw his arms up a little when he saw him.

"Finally!" said Lestrade as he emerged into the main office. "You guys haven't called since you were on your way to the Ben Franklin House! What happened? Did Sherlock find her?"

"Oh, he found her, all right," John told him.

Lestrade frowned at the grin on his face. "What are you so happy about? Besides the obvious."

John faintly heard the _ding_ of the lift, and he glanced back in that direction before looking back at Lestrade. "You are never going to believe this." He then turned towards the doors, stepping out of Lestrade's view. He also gazed around the office quickly to see that Donovan was only a few desks away, standing talking to a colleague.

 _Good,_ he thought as he looked back at the doorway.

The next second, Sherlock came through the doors with his arm around Molly's shoulders, his other hand holding one of hers, and his aura shining his deep violet and bright gold for everyone to see. John enjoyed glancing around to see the Yard officers staring in shock at the usually Aura-less consulting detective, and then he looked over at Lestrade, whose mouth was gaping as wide as his eyes were.

But the real amusement came when Donovan glanced up at the sudden hush of the room and spotted Sherlock—the man she always called "Freak" due to his lack of aura. She stared in shock as Sherlock and Molly approached, and she seemed to inadvertently take several steps forward.

"Yes, Donovan?" asked Sherlock in a tone that warned her to watch what she said.

"You're…you're not…" Donovan muttered.

"Aura-less, no," Sherlock finished for her. "When I was a young child, my criminally insane sister kidnapped my best friend and drowned him."

Donovan's face—and aura—paled; she prided herself on her ability to comfort traumatized victims, especially because Sherlock did not.

"Needless to say, that was very traumatic," Sherlock finished. "Now, if you don't mind, Molly has had a very trying day, so…" He then steered Molly further through the room until they reached John and Lestrade. "Molly is here to give her statement and describe the man that kidnapped her. Quickly. Then I am taking her back to Baker Street to keep an eye on her concussion. Any questions you have later can be addressed there. And then…" he lowered his voice slightly as he looked down at Molly, "after you have healed, I intend to show you just how happy I am that you're alive."

Molly smiled, and then, in front of the shocked officers in the room, Sherlock gave her a long kiss.

Sherlock then broke away and looked over at them. "All right, Lestrade, let's get this over with."

John looked over at Lestrade and just about burst into laughter at the stunned look on his face. The man looked like he hadn't even heard Sherlock.

"Lestrade," prompted Sherlock in annoyance, waiting only a moment before raising his voice. "Greg!"

Lestrade blinked a few times and looked at Sherlock. "Hmm?"

"If we could move it along," said Sherlock. "Molly's injured."

"Uh…right, yeah…" said Lestrade, leading them into his office.

John smiled after his friend and chuckled, shaking his head, before going to follow.

"Did you know?"

John turned to see Donovan standing behind him.

"That's why you've been his friend, right?" said Donovan. "You knew he used to have an aura?"

John stared at her for a moment before dropping his head and shaking it. Even after finally seeing the man Sherlock kept hidden deep inside, she was still at it.

John turned his body to face her. "No, Donovan, I never knew until ten minutes ago when Molly brought his colors back. Neither did he."

Donovan frowned in confusion.

"He was so traumatized when he lost his best friend that he rewrote his memories. He had no clue he used to have an aura. You see, Donovan—" he went on in a raised voice as she looked like she was about to interrupt, "unlike you, I don't need to see someone's aura to know that they should be treated like a human being. You really shouldn't judge people at first sight." He turned and looked at Sherlock for a moment before glancing back at Donovan. "You never know what hidden depths they may possess."

And as Donovan's neon green dulled to an olive and then to a moss and her pink spikes grew as murky as a pinkish-purple storm cloud—which was a frankly horrific combination—John turned and marched into Lestrade's office.

THE END


End file.
